The Heir - Catherine Coulter [31]
9
Elsbeth did not believe that Lady Ann had already lost interest in her. Nor did she believe that Lady Ann had gotten herself into an accident. Actually, she was not thinking about Lady Ann at all. Rather, she was staring off at nothing in particular, her small hand poised above her stitchery, her colorful creation for the moment forgotten. It was bluebells around a pond, or some such sort of water.
She was thinking about all the fun that awaited her in London. Balls, routs, even plays in Drury Lane. So much to do, so much to see. She had heard of the Pantheon Bazaar all of her life, where one could fine literally any color ribbon and myriad other gewgaws. And there was, of course, Almack’s, that most holy of inner sanctums, where young girls spent untold hours dancing with charming, dashing young men. Her ten thousand pounds would ensure her foothold in London society. With Lady Ann, the widow of a peer and military hero, she could not imagine any door being closed to her. So excited was she at the prospect that her natural shyness and hesitancy in mixing in polite society lessened considerably.
She frowned, thinking suddenly of Josette. How she wished that her old servant would cease with her dark mutterings against every Deverill in sight and out of sight. After all, had not her father proven his love for her? Such a vast sum he had bequeathed to her. Elsbeth sighed. Josette was just getting old. Her wits were becoming clouded, too. Just this morning, Josette had called her Magdalaine.
Quite clearly she had said, “Come closer to the window, Magdalaine. How can I mend this flounce with you fidgeting about so?”
Elsbeth had chosen not to remind her faithful old servant that she was not her mother, Magdalaine. She had docilely moved to the window.
It was then that she had seen the earl and Arabella. “Oh, just look, Josette,” she said, pointing as she moved closer to the window, “there come Arabella and the earl. Look at their stallions, how fast they’re running.” Indeed, the two great plunging stallions were cannoning across the drive onto the front lawn. “They are racing! There, Arabella has won. Oh my, just look how her horse is plunging and rearing. Oh, how exciting.” Elsbeth shivered. Horses seemed quite unpredictable to her; they were nasty, jittery beasts, and not to be trusted. She hated them, but she would never admit it to Arabella.
Elsbeth heard Arabella’s shout of victory and watcher her alight from her horse, unassisted. Ah, she was so graceful, her skirts whirling around her. Josette drew closer, narrowed her watery eyes against the glare of the morning sun, and muttered with heavy disapproval, “Just like her father she is, brash and conceited. Not a lady like you, my little pet. Leaping off her horse as if she were a man. And look at the new earl—encouraging her, that’s what he’s doing. Laughing at her antics. It sickens me and it will sicken him. Men do not like women to be strong and outspoken. He will give her orders soon enough, once they are married. And she will obey because she has no choice. Magdalaine had no choice. I know.”
Elsbeth wasn’t listening. She was thinking with a slight twinge of envy that she was older than Arabella, yet she felt so terribly—unfinished, as if God hadn’t cared enough to give her due consideration, to wonder perhaps if she could be prettier, even wittier in her wit, which, in her view, was nil. Well, she was wittier than poor old Josette.
Elsbeth drew her thoughts back to the present. Her hands were still poised motionlessly above her stitchery. It was quite ridiculous, she decided, to be jealous of Arabella. After all, it was she, Elsbeth, who had the ten thousand pounds. All free and clear. She didn’t have to do anything. It was hers, simply hers. If Arabella did not comply with her father’s instructions, she would have nothing. Arabella would have to marry the new earl. Elsbeth shivered. She found the new earl almost as terrifying as the huge bay stallion